


Coming home

by AllHeartsAreBroken



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 02:57:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllHeartsAreBroken/pseuds/AllHeartsAreBroken
Summary: "That's when John saw the scars, and he felt like dozens of knives and whips were scoring his own skin, leaving exactly the same marks all over his body"





	Coming home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockWatson_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/gifts).



> I apologise for using expressions like "his friend" or "the detective" or "the taller man", I know many of you prefer the repetition of names, but in certain parts it would have been just TOO MUCH 😂 I hope this doesn't ruin it for you.

  
When Sherlock explained why he had to disappear, why he couldn't let John know he was alive until Moriarty's network had been completely dismantled, John couldn't stop the anger and the hurt from prevailing over the joy of having his best friend back.  
Christ, he'd spent so many nights lying awake in bed, too afraid of what he could have seen if he'd closed his eyes and wondering what he'd done wrong, and Sherlock had been playing hide and seek all along.  
But then they got back to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson barely managed not to faint at the sight of Sherlock and hugged him as tightly as she could once she collected herself; John noted with concern that Sherlock failed to hide a slight wince when she made contact with him, and as soon as they went upstairs he asked the detective to remove his shirt. Even though Sherlock looked worried and more than a little reluctant, he eventually complied, undressing slowly and with shaky hands.

That's when John saw the scars, and he felt like dozens of knives and whips were scoring his own skin, leaving exactly the same marks all over his body.

He had dealt with revolting wounds in Afghanistan, had witnessed the mutilation of arms and legs and hands, had watched the sand turn red; yet those scars burning on Sherlock's pale, once-perfect skin horrified him more than anything he'd ever seen.

Now his mind had brand new material with which to haunt him at night.

Sherlock stood seemingly still, but John could see his muscles twitch nervously under his careful examination.

Cigarette burns on his shoulders, long and deep cuts on his arms, lacerated flesh on his back. John's head started spinning and a wave of nausea hit his stomach, but somehow he couldn't tear his gaze away from that grisly abstract painting splashed across the canvas of Sherlock’s skin.

"John" Sherlock said, his voice suddenly stopping the ground from crumbling beneath John’s feet.

John took a deep breath and cleared his throat, realising he'd been silent for at least five minutes. "Do they still hurt?" he asked, not even trying to sound like nothing more than a concerned doctor.

"A bit.”

John finally took a step back and allowed Sherlock to turn around, feeling his chest ache when he met sad, pleading, bloodshot eyes.

He hesitated.

He couldn't bring himself to ask about Serbia or Romania or wherever the hell Sherlock had been, but God, he wanted to know. He couldn't stand being kept in the dark any longer, no matter how painful hearing about what Sherlock had suffered through would be.

For the first time since the day they met, he was incredibly grateful for his friend's ability to read people's minds, because a few seconds later he was hearing exactly the explanation he was hoping to get but was unable to ask for.

"They kept me in a dark cell for weeks. Tortured me, beat me until I couldn't breathe. I have no idea why it took my brother so long to get me out of there” Sherlock said flatly, blatantly trying to hide a deeper, darker emotion.

John swallowed roughly and kept his eyes fixed on him, trying not to think of all the possible ways he could hurt Mycroft.

"What gave you the strength to keep fighting?"

The words left his mouth unbidden. Of all the things he could have said, that he wanted to say ( _"I'm sorry", "You should have trusted me, I could've helped you", "I'm glad you're here_ "), he didn't expect himself to ask that question, but Sherlock didn't look taken aback.

"Thinking of home."

"London?"

Sherlock looked at him with a vulnerable, almost scary openness he had never shown before, his bright eyes impossibly soft, and John felt his throat tighten.

"You.”

\---

It didn't really start as something sexual.

John just needed to touch Sherlock, hoping it would be comforting for both of them, and Sherlock’s need was just as strong, judging by the way he leant into John’s touch.

They were lying in Sherlock's bed and John was chastely running his hands over pale and scarred skin, their eyes locked on each other’s and speaking words they were not ready to say out loud yet; it was probably the closest they’d ever been, certainly the most intimate, and even though it was new it felt incredibly right.

John could have explored Sherlock's body with his fingertips for hours, just to make him feel safe and to remind him of the feeling of a kind, loving touch, but the need to find each other again was too strong, the wanting they had always tried to suppress was consuming them from the inside, and half an hour later they were both naked and sweaty and pressed against each other, caught in a vortex of feverish passion.

John was energically thrusting into Sherlock and devouring his mouth, determined to give him the most exquisite pleasure after all the pain he had borne. It felt like a miracle to see how sensitive and responsive Sherlock was and how beautiful he looked when he allowed himself to lose control, to wholly surrender his trust to someone else.

John suddenly sat back and pulled Sherlock onto his lap, and the taller man quickly wrapped his legs around John’s back.

Their greedy mouths almost never parted, seeking each other's comforting warmth, their heavy breaths mingling; they were clinging to each other as though their lives depended on it, fingers sinking into hot, flushed skin and finding their way into sweaty hair.

John felt a wave of roiling, liquid heat in his stomach and his groin began to tense, but he didn't want it to be over yet; he needed to make it last, to feel every quiver of Sherlock's beating heart (real, strong, alive) deep down in his bones, to savour every moment before getting completely lost in blinding pleasure.

He gradually slowed the pace of his thrusts and Sherlock moaned in protest, trying to restore the rhythm that had made them both cry out with ecstasy, but John gripped his hips to still him.

"Shh, slow down," he whispered gently against Sherlock's warm cheek, his eyes closed. "Slow down. That's it.”

They stopped for a few seconds and John took some deep breaths, pulling back just enough to look at Sherlock’s face, flushed and achingly beautiful.

God, he'd missed it so much.

He saw a drop of sweat tracing a slow path along Sherlock's temple and he kissed it away, sliding his hands up his lover's chest and neck before slowly starting to thrust into him again, burying his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck to hide the tears that suddenly clouded his eyes.

The skin he had thought he would never get to touch and smell and taste. The body he had almost lost to water and fire and gunpowder so many times. The inebriating warmth he had wished to be engulfed in for so long.

_This is real, this is right, and I can finally have it._

Sherlock's thighs started to quiver as John reached between their bodies to touch him, and then he was throwing his head back and spasming violently, his mouth open in a silent scream.

John followed a few thrusts later and suddenly all the grief, the bitterness, the emptiness were just distant memories, and he felt as though he were coming home again.

\---

He knew that it wouldn't be easy to forget (no: to move on. Forgetting was impossible and never the right or the best thing to do). He knew that it would take a while for the pain to subside and for the nightmares to stop, and sometimes he would still struggle to believe that Sherlock was not going to fade away before his very eyes, like a stone slowly sinking into cloudy water.

But he was willing to give life another chance.

Chemistry equipment took up the whole surface of the kitchen table. The black leather chair near the fireplace was no longer covered in dust. The sweet notes of a violin filled the flat in the middle of the night. The television got occasionally shouted at.

Everything felt right again; everything made sense again. The world - his world - could finally keep turning now that Sherlock Holmes was back in it.


End file.
